


Everest Together

by LadyLoquacity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock, M/M, clothed orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLoquacity/pseuds/LadyLoquacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of the "Come at Once" LJ challenge. </p><p>Prompt from unsettledink was: "bring me a bottle of lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew", which I took as an opportunity to write drunken shenanigans. </p><p>Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everest Together

It takes me bloody hours to open the front door. Keyhole keeps moving, dodging my key until I finally trap the bastard. Sherlock, he's leaning his forehead against the brickwork next to me, mumbling about ash and galaxies. I'm not really listening. We get inside and it looks like our staircase transformed into Everest whilst we were on the pub crawl. Mrs Hudson will be livid when she finds out. We decide that it's too late for mountaineering and set up base camp; it's not very comfortable, but then I don't think it's the worst place I have ever kipped in. Seem to remember a night in a piss stinking alley with Mike Stamford, as first years in the big bad city. 

I'm just getting comfortable when Mrs H wakes us up - tells us we've only been out two hours. I think she must be having us on. I drank a lot, definitely more than two hours worth of alcohol is coursing through my system right now. It's a cue to drag our sorry arses upstairs though, even if we do only make it as far as the armchairs. We start dozing off again, and Sherlock snores, once, then leaps up. I've given up questioning what the mad git is up to, plus I'm too drunk and too warm to care. He skitters back across the room holding a bottle of scotch and two glasses, very precariously. 

"More?" He asks, swirling the honey coloured liquid against the glass.   
"Don't mind if I do." I'm grinning, and I don't know why. I just feel really happy right now. 

He pours us both an extremely generous measure of whiskey. 

"Sherlock. Are you trying to get me drunk?"  
"You're already drunk. As am I."  
"Touché."

He hands me my glass, and sinks back into his chair, sipping slowly at his drink. 

We sit there in a comfortable silence, drinking our nectar. I take another sip of mine, but between the alcohol and the central heating and Sherlock's unwavering gaze, I realise just how hot I am. Down goes the rest of the whiskey, in one burning gulp. Off comes my jacket, and I start unbuttoning my shirt. I remember that I'm not wearing anything underneath it, snort a quick laugh, and pause. What am I waiting for? It seems like I'm waiting for encouragement. And I get it, in the form of a nod, a slight bounce of those stupid curls. I shift forward a bit, pulling the back of my shirt awkwardly from the waistband of my jeans. I lose my balance and pitch forward; I end up grabbing Sherlock's knee for support. His eyes, I swear, his eyes tell me more than any words ever could. Can he still read me, whilst under the influence? I should tell him, just in case. We are always bloody talking in circles about what our exact relationship, friendship, is. And so, and so. 

"I don't mind," I say, and it sounds flippant to my ear. It's anything but. Luckily, he squeezes my hand, the one still on his leg.

"John," he says, and that's all it takes. My name on his lips has never sounded like that before, all want and desperation. I settle between his legs, stance still wide, framing me. I push my hands up his thighs, rubbing circles into the soft, supple flesh. His eyes are closed, there's a patch of red on each of his idiotic cheekbones. I move one hand to rest over his crotch, the heat of him seeping through the fabric. His eyelids flicker, his breathing hitches. He pushes up, ever so slightly, against my palm.

I remove my hand, and he opens his eyes at this. "You should watch," I tell him, if only for the satisfaction of watching himself come undone at my hands. With two fingertips I trace the length of his erection, up and down, up and down. Featherlight touches. If it's just going to be tonight then I want to make the most of it. I decide I want to make him come in his pants. I'm on a mission.

With my other hand I cup his balls as best as I can, the taut fabric hindering me slightly. But he can feel it, and that's what matters right now. I vary the attention I am paying to his cock, and he's rocking against me now, desperate for more. He's shifted forward enough to be slumped in his chair, so I unzip his trousers, pull them down his legs slightly. This, this is what I want. The precome leaking from his cock has left a damp spot on the grey fabric of his underwear. My mouth waters, and before I know it, my mouth is suckling at it, testing the hardness beneath with my tongue. Sherlock moans, grabs my shoulders, my hair. I suck, lick, give it all I've got. My thumb rubs an offbeat rhythm against the base of his cock, and before I know it, he's yanking my hair, pushing himself against my lips. His thighs tremble around me.

"John," he says, with a sigh, as I push myself up and back onto my chair. He's grinning. So am I.


End file.
